Blaze (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE KREMLIN, RUSSIA

H
e had kept the mug. It sat boldly on the shelf in his office, on the wall adjacent to his desk. The proud Russian president stared at the mug in a reverent and worshipful way as he stood beside his desk allowing his body to lean lightly against the bookshelf. Every time it caught his eye he felt a jitter and stir deep within his soul. For Maksim Koslov, a rigid hearted-man in his late forties who had never taken a bride, the jitter and stir was the closest he every came to feeling love. And love he indeed did have—a tremendous love for the skull-shaped mug and all that it meant to him; his legacy, his heritage, his future, and the destiny of his beloved Mother Russia.

Discipline and diligence were characteristics that were woven into the fabric of Maksim's being; trademarks, that in his mind, were the guard rails that had enabled him to fulfill the meaning of his name—“the greatest.” He never saw the meaning of his name as irrelevant and mere trivia. He endeavored, from as early as his boyhood years, to live up to it. His imagination as a young child surpassed that of all his peers. He, even at the young age of six, was mesmerized by Russian history, particularly that of the great Czars, with such an intense, visceral fascination, that his family often held him in greater esteem above his siblings. They highly encouraged Maksim's dreams to someday become a great warrior of Mother Russia: a warrior and a leader. And, whether they knew that they were fostering the notion or not, a Czar.

Maksim always started his day with a review of its agenda. He coupled this with other meditations. This took place during his coveted morning quiet time in his office. In this solitude he often found himself studying the czars of Russia's past. He also focused on strengthening his knowledge of his Scythian ancestors. Both threads served to inspire Koslov in his ongoing aspirations. This office time was brief but meaningful. Usually thirty to forty-five minutes at most. On this particular morning, as he stared at the mug that was a physical symbol of his dominance and ambition, he lamented that his quiet time was over as he readied himself for his morning swim.

Maksim made his way to the pool within a few minutes and wasted no time jumping in. He assumed a strong pace in no time at all. Maksim's mind was racing in a myriad of directions as he swung his arms in a precise arc with perfect rhythm. The water temperature of the pool was perfectly set at seventy-two degrees and he was engaged in an unusually vigorous swim. His heart was brilliantly beating and the currents of his mind mimicked its pace and intensity. He reminded himself to be measured with his excitement so as not to misstep. Maksim was ever-cognizant of the folly of emotionalism and its potential to cloud objectivity and derail action. No one could ever accuse Czar Koslov of emotionalism—fervor and spirit, yes, but not emotionalism.

However, he was so unusually pleased with the rapidity of unfolding events that aligned with his plans, that, he pondered, for this particular day it was quite possible that his emotions may truly gain a foothold with him.

He had reached the center of the pool and was swimming over the painted image of a bear imprinted at the bottom of the pool. He loved that image. It was a design that he had replicated from an ancient Scythian artifact he had acquired. His Scythian heritage was one of his most profound interests and Scythian motifs were present in many of the items in his vast art collection. The source artifact was a golden warrior helmet with a bear sculpted upon it. The bear painted on the pool's floor was flawlessly done. He had demanded that precise image be painted on the pool floor in the Kremlin so that he would be reminded, each morning as he swam, of the emerging strength and power of the country he so loved. Russia had once again become the bear. It was a long, twisted, and sordid path, but one worth taking.

Maksim completed his swim and hurled his sinewy, muscular body out from the pool. After sufficient drying, he made his way to the breakfast room covered by his robe. There were no scheduled guests to join him this morning, so a robe would be fine for him to take his breakfast in. The staff heeded his request that American jazz music be played as he ate. This morning it was primarily Miles Davis, but a dash of Coltraine was mixed in for good measure and strong impact.

Maksim's mind was jogging backwards as he slammed steaming black coffee down his throat to chase his last bite of toast.
It's furiously wonderful how events have transpired. How circumstances have given way.
The sounds of John Coltraine prominently filled the air.
Damn, I do love good jazz
. This thought was a trite interruption of his glorious recollection of his rise to power. But, yes, Maksim did love jazz. It was the only thing he found redeemable of American art and culture.
The Americans. What a sad story they've become.
He dabbed a tickling bead of water from his hairline with the sleeve of his robe. His mind then again became transfixed on the sequence of events that led him to the Kremlin, where he so happily enjoyed eggs over easy at the moment.

He had become a reluctant fan of Vladimir Putin for a time. Putin had set in motion many actions that Koslov later aspired to perfect and intensify. He had watched with glee as Putin systematically dismantled all traces of Boris Yeltsin's progress toward democracy, free elections, freedom of religion, and free market enterprise. It had eventually become difficult to believe that Yeltsin had any role in encouraging or grooming Putin, particularly as Putin maneuvered to erase the election of governors and instead appointed all eighty-nine of them himself. Koslov felt a tickle of jealousy of that move as it served to mark the evolving narrative of Russia's history. A narrative Koslov wanted to earn credit for. A persistent narrative that embodied the nation's character once described as a “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” by Winston Churchill. The narrative was not entirely disagreeable under Putin's rule as Maksim would assess. Just too tame and slow in its approach. Maksim had in mind a timeline for Russia's re-emergence on the global stage that was more broadband and less dial-up. It was that crucial difference that led to Putin's necessary demise.

He likely couldn't have pulled off the coup without the help of his lovely, disgruntled friends of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood. He couldn't thank Putin enough for cracking down on these thugs and jailing many key members. Those hard-line, law enforcement actions, although done more to protect political power than to smoke out lawlessness and corruption, helped Maksim solidify an enemy of his enemy. And they became Maksim's friends real quickly as Putin declared himself the enemy of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood strain of the Russian mafia. It was a great boasting right for Putin. But little did he know that the enemy he made would help initiate the coup that would leave him taking a dirt nap.

It was only 6:15 am as Maksim completed his breakfast. He savored the last few notes of the Miles Davis track that had been playing as he made his way into his art studio. He would spend the remaining forty-five minutes of his pre-workday routine there until 7:30 am rolled around and the day would begin to more thoroughly engage him.

Maksim was unusually gifted at many things. Whether it was business, communication and the art of persuasion, individual sports of a high-octane physical nature, writing, or political prowess, Maksim was no stranger to various states of excellence. Painting was no different. He had dabbled in painting as a teenager, but didn't excel at it until his political career began to blossom. He had found that the busier and more complex his political career became, the more therapeutic and necessary his painting became. Along with morning swims and evening kickboxing sessions, the painting was a tremendous release valve for Maksim.

Maksim's mind was often a pile of raw thoughts and ideas during the onset of each painting session. He often likened his mind to a sausage factory as he would paint, swim, or kick box. Every event, thought, pending decision, and handful of variables floated around his head in an ugly, messy sea of simultaneity and disarray. But like the ugliness of making sausage, when the process was over, he emerged from the other side with a proverbial eatable product—however unhealthy in its eventual effects—in the form of a clear, decisive mind. This morning was no different. His morning swim began the process, and the painting he was now applying effort to would likely complete the circle of his thoughts. When his aides would ask him how swimming, painting, or kickboxing was on any given day, he often replied, “The sausage is complete.” He never explained. He just let them stand there perplexed and smiling awkwardly.

This morning would constitute his second session on this particular painting, and he reckoned he would need at least three more sessions before it was due for a frame. It would be, as was his custom, an extremely ornamental gold frame. This was precisely the way he envisioned his Scythian ancestors to have packaged their art. The fascination and excessive use of gold was a key emphasis in Scythian culture. Maksim honored this tradition.

In regard to central and definitive motifs of Scythian culture, the horse was undoubtedly one of the most prominent. It is widely attributed that the Scythians were one of the first, if not
the
first, groups to tame and ride horses in Central Asia. It was the development of their equestrian skills that enabled the Scythians to become monstrous warriors and conquerors of an unquenchable nature. The horse thus became a strong and clear symbol of a voracious appetite to conquer. This was his inspiration and purpose for conveying the glory of the horse through his painting. If he did not think it such a lowly and detestable art form, he might just consider getting the symbol of a horse tattooed on him.

Maksim sipped from his coffee mug as he allowed a momentary pause from his painting efforts. His mind became focused on the details of how he conquered the Kremlin and swiftly eliminated Putin.

The impetus for his coup had been a statistic that had been released at the time. It was Putin's second reign of power, to which he re-emerged after Medvedev's term was up. Years prior, in Putin's first reign of power, a poll was taken of the Russian people that indicated one in four citizens would actually vote for Stalin if he was alive and running for president of Russia. At the time, the world was shocked by the implications.

By the time Putin re-emerged for his second reign, the Chechen problem had grown and persisted beyond a controllable grip. This thwarted the hope that Russia's increased coziness with Iran would somehow serve to help diffuse the Chechen problem. This reality drove the Russian people to desire safety and strength above all else, regardless of how iron the fist that ultimately ruled them might be. When the same poll was taken again during Putin's second reign, it revealed the results that three in four Russians would vote for Stalin if he had been alive and running for president. This prompted increasing suspicions in the international community about the state of the collective Russian mindset.

For Maksim, the survey results were a glowing green light and an electrically charged trigger for his long-schemed revolutionary coup. He knew that at least three in four Russians were eager for his rule; his iron clenched fist. It was his time to strike.

The brush gently stroked the canvas as fine hues of brown began emerging. These hues formed free-flowing hair on the horse image. As his mind continued to linger, with an enormous sense of inner satisfaction, on the sequence of events that brought him to power, Maksim saw the strong image of the skull-shaped mug crystallize in his mind.

Although the mug physically remained in his office safely on a shelf, its significance was always held deeply within Maksim's heart; its image lodged securely in his mind's eye. It did, however, leave the shelf, and serve utilitarian purposes from time to time. These purposes were of a nature that embodied the full value and meaning of the mug. The last time the mug was put to use was the day Putin died.

Maksim had finally achieved his goal of legitimizing the LDPR (Liberal Democratic Party of Russia) in the months and weeks prior to the coup. Since its founding, the grossly misnamed Russian political party had been steadily gaining traction. Its founder, Volfovich Zhirinovsky had been a visceral focal point for the party. Zhirinovsky spearheaded the development of the party's ideas, vision, and its gradual coalescing with the Russian man on the street.

But the founder was also easily dismissed and ridiculed for a bold flamboyance that was at once comical and dangerous, but moreover, an easy discredit to the legitimacy of the ideas he attempted to give trajectory to. As Zhirinovsky's influence faded, due to inner-party struggles and his increasing weakness for Vodka, Maksim slowly, and slyly filled the void. But unlike Zhirinovsky, Maksim's charisma, scintillating oratory skills, brazen leadership and overall magnetism gave instant and heavy credence to the vision of the LDPR. The wind was at his back, and momentum was building in such a way that strength repeatedly gave birth to renewed and increased strength. As each press release and subsequent media report captured the interest of the Russian citizens, the popularity of the LDPR continued to skyrocket. His only roadblock was Putin.

It was a crisp autumn morning when he settled the Putin problem. Maksim's tentacles ran deep in the Kremlin and he had secretly built alliances and paid off the majority of Putin's administration. Those who were not on board were simply poisoned like cheap journalists. Maksim recalled the glory he felt in the marrow of his bones as he walked nonchalantly into the Kremlin that day accompanied by the loyal thugs of the Solntsevskaya brotherhood. Everyone in the building knew who they were and why they were there. And everyone promptly looked the other way.

Maksim walked into Putin's office with a sense of destiny. He was not ushered in and he did not knock. Putin's face instantly revealed his understanding of the situation the minute he saw the mafia thugs he had been politically crucifying walk into his office as if they were invited. He had heard that Maksim was building an alliance with them, but he had not had confirmation until the moment he saw it less than ten feet in front of him. In his own office no less.